Square One
by NattiDino
Summary: A look at the beginning of Clint Barton's life and what made him the man he is today. Who influenced him and how did his choices affect not only himself but those around him. Hope you enjoy, I've been working on this for a while. Rated T for swears.
1. Barney

Sorry it's been a while since I posted anything. I was trying to get it all finished off and then school work and life just caught up, so sorry. I hope you all enjoy this, I really enjoyed writing it and if you have any suggestions or see any mistakes don't be afraid to message/review

Nat x

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><p>The two boys lay in bed huddled next to each other, for warmth more than comfort. The thin blanket cocooned them tightly and Clint's soft low breathing was all that Barney could hear. He looked down at his brother, two years his younger, and snorted lightly. He couldn't understand how Clint could sleep, tonight was an important night, the most important night of their short lives and he had treated it like something special wasn't about to happen.<p>

When he had told Clint of his plan the younger boy had been shocked, and scared. The beatings they regularly received painted their skin unhealthy greens and blues, but that was their fault, Clint reasoned, why didn't they just try harder? Barney wouldn't stand for it, he hated their father more vehemently and passionately than any eight year old ever should and the respect he held for his mother had vanished when she did nothing to protect them.

"No! I'm not stayin' here Clint, it's the only way!" he dug the dry dirt under his feet with a long stick. Clint sat on an empty oil drum, throwing small stones at a can perched on the fence a few metres away, smiling every time they rattled inside it. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"Yeah Barney, 'course!" he said, throwing a stone at his brother, "It's just, Pa won't like it, will he? If it doesn't work… He'll be mad, Barney."

"It will work. I'll make sure it works. I promise." He hit the oil drum roughly with his stick and it clanged loudly, throwing Clint's aim off. The younger boy looked down angrily.

"That's not fair!" he jumped down and they descended quickly into rolling around in the dry grass and dirt. The sun beat steadily down on them as they roughhoused, laughing.

"Barney?" Clint asked suddenly, pausing, "If this does work, where'll we go?"

Barney slid off his brother and lay down next to him. He hadn't thought about that. All he knew was that he would at least never have to see his parents again.

"I dunno, I guess to a nice family, right? You know, a proper family. With a mama an' pa an' a dog an' a sister."  
>"Would we have a garden?"<br>"Yeah, we'll have a garden."  
>"Can I get a swing, Barney?"<br>"Yeah you can have a swing."

"What's the dog called?"  
>"Roxy. An' she's a big fluffy dog an' whenever you're feelin' crappy she'll come over and cuddle with you proper. An' the mama'll make lemonade an' you can show our sister how to make a boat out of paper an' we'll have spaghetti every night." Barney stared up at the cloudless sky, imagining what could be.<p>

"What about the pa?" Clint asked, pulling grass from the ground.

"He's the best pa you could ever want. He goes to see us at every baseball game an' afterwards he'll buy us ice cream an' carry us on his shoulders. He don't never hit us, not even when we're bad, an' he never once laughs at us or calls us stupid." Barney's fingers dig into the ground and he throws pieces of dirt into the air. "He ain't nothin' like our pa."

Clint sits up and stares across the open wasteland that surrounds their tiny house. It is filled with old rusty machinery and car parts. The dirt track that leads to the road is at least a mile long and from where they sit he can just make out the glint and sound of cars as they rush past.

"You're the best brother ever Barney." He said suddenly. Barney gives him a funny look. Whatever he had been expecting it hadn't been that.

"I know." he said simply and threw a handful of dirt at Clint's back.

Barney hears the sound of a car rattling slowly down the drive. He sits up slowly and carefully moves the lace curtain so he can see. Outside blue and red lights flash steadily. He ducks down, grinning, it worked. His plan actually worked.

"Clint. Clint, wake up." He shakes his brother roughly. "It worked! The police are here so don't be dumb, remember?" Clint's eyes are wide, fear and excitement sparkling in their blue depths.

"I know Barney! You told me earlier." Clint hops out of bed and skips into the kitchen-living room. Barney walks behind him, memorising what to say to the police. He goes to the front door and waits, counting silently. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

He opens the door just as two police officers get out of the car. The have solemn looks on their faces.  
>"Can I help you, sir?" Barney asks, addressing the tall square man. He glanced over at the woman walking behind him, she had short dark hair and a sympathetic look on her face.<p>

"Are you Barney Barton, son?" the man asked in the deep southern drawl accustom around their area.

"Yessir."

"I'm Detective Holls, this is my partner, Detective Clarke, is you're brother there Barney?"

"Yessir."

"May we come in; we need to talk to you boys."

Barney stood for a couple of seconds, not sure if he should let them in. His father had, spitefully, told them never to let cops into their house – unless they wanted a hiding of course. He knew what they were here for, but even so, he stopped. What if he was wrong?

"It's about your mom and dad, son." The police man said gently. He drew a deep breath and swung the door open, he wasn't wrong.

The officers stepped lightly into the house, disgust registering on their faces for half a second before smoothing over again. Piles of dishes lined the sink and surfaces, old newspapers sat in haphazard piles and empty beer bottles littered the floor. There was a distinct scent in the air that meant only one thing.

"Sit down boys, we have some bad news, I'm afraid." The woman spoke up, lifting an eyebrow to her partner. She perched on the couch as the man walked down the small hallway.

"I'm afraid there was an accident, your mom and dad were involved, they didn't make it. I'm sorry." She gave a tight lipped smile to the two boys who were kneeling on the couch opposite. The younger one looked at her with watery eyes while the older one stared at a point just behind her head, tense.

"Where's he goin'?" The older boy asked, motioning to the corridor her partner and disappeared down.

"He's just going to have a little look around your house." Clarke answered, confused.

"He can't go in pa's office, aint no one allowed in there."

"Why not, sweetie?"

"You aint allowed." He shook his head. She didn't press further, but got back to the point in hand.

"You boys don't have any other eligible family round here so we're going to have to take you into the station, ok?" she reached to pat them on the knee and they both flinched. She sat back, "Go get dressed. Do you have school bags?"

They nodded.

"Ok, go get them and put some clothes in." The boys walked slowly past her and into a room on the left. As soon as they got there Barney grinned again.

"I cant believe it worked." He said, hugging his brother. "This is brilliant!"

"Barney?" Clint's eyes were full of tears that he wouldn't shed, "Is mama an' pa really gone? Forever?"

"Yeah! We don't never have to see them no more." Barney threw some clothes into his small bag. He looked over to see Clint putting his small teddy bear into his. "What the hell are you doin'? You're not takin' that!"  
>"But Barney-"<p>

"No. You aint a baby, are you? Only babies have teddy bears." Silently Clint dropped the bear, snuffling. "Stop crying, you aint no baby, you hear? It's good that they're dead."  
>"But we aint never gonna see mama again." He wiped his nose with his sleeve.<p>

"Yeah, that's a good thing. She didn't never love you." Barney zipped his bag closed, "Neither did pa, but we'll go to people who do love us an' we'll be happy, 'member?"

"We'll have a dog?"

"Yeah we'll have a dog." He answered gruffly.

"An' a swing?"  
>"Yeah. Now hurry up, that lady'll be waitin'"<p>

In the dark hallway the police officers were talking quietly. Holls had already radioed in the teaming marijuana factory they had found in the fathers 'office' and a secondary team were due in ten minutes.

"I can't believe people would raise kids in this." Clarke murmured quietly, "They don't look too well fed either, I doubt they've had a decent meal in their life." Her partner agreed silently. "Did you see the bruising on the small ones face? Left hand side. I bet that's all these boys have known. It makes me sick."

"Always the same. Not surprised by the way the parents went out either." They had come straight from where the car had gift wrapped a tree.

"Wasn't pretty though."

"Preliminary says it might not have been an accident." Holls raised an eyebrow, "brake line was cut."

"Well the guy certainly had enough enemies." A door opened behind her and the two turned to look. The boys stood, dressed in ill-fitting jeans and t-shirts, their bags slung over their shoulders. She smiled, "Ready to go?"

They nodded.

"Ok. I'll take them in, you wait for the team." She said to her partner, then smiled and walked out to the car, the boys trudging in front of her.

Holls watched them go and shook his head; he knew he was going to see those boys again.


	2. Detective Holls

"What the hell are you doin', get off! Get off! Barney! Help!" Clint screamed as he was forced to the ground, the bigger boys pushing him and kicking him. He curled in on himself, his back taking most of the beating.

"Where's your brother now you lil shit? Huh? Not so fuckin' tough now are you?"

"Stupid fuck."  
>"Little bitch, gonna go cryin' to your brother, huh?" The boys taunted. Clint absent mindedly wondered what he had done this time to upset them so much. He couldn't remember anything, he had kept quiet at breakfast, didn't try to talk to them at school, and even walking home he had stayed a few steps behind them. Even still they had found a reason to hit him. He couldn't work it out.<p>

One of the boys spat down on him, realising they weren't going to get much of a response today.

"Come on! Lil shits too pussy to fight back." They ran off down the street, back towards the institution Barney and Clint were currently placed in. He sat up slowly and spat out a mouthful of blood. He had bit his tongue again and his nose was bleeding. He could feel a lump forming above his eye. He couldn't quite think of a way to explain it to the carers and so, instead of going back for dinner, he sat back against the wall and closed his eyes.

This wasn't what he had been expecting four years ago. His brother had promised him that they would go live with a nice family, but where were they? No family, no dog, no kid sister, not even a swing. All they had to show for their parents death was scars and a bad reputation. This was their fourth, no, fifth institutional home they had been in, and they'd only been considered for adoption twice. Twice, in four years. That wasn't even once a year.

He let out a laugh and put his hands up behind his head. He didn't want to go back. He would be reprimanded, again, third time this week, and he would go without dinner, second time, and he would have to see the faces of all the other boys as he got told off, and he couldn't do that. So he sat and let his mind wander. He imagined himself in a big back garden, with sun shining down on him as he ran and chased a little sister around, and when he caught her he would tickle her until they were laughing so hard they had to stop. A big retriever would come bounding over and he would throw a stick for it while a mom watched from the kitchen window and smiled any time he looked up at her. He imagined a dad coming home and gathering him up in his arms and hugging him tight. They would sit down for a family meal and they would talk about what they had done that day, and after they would help with whatever homework the boys had.

The sound of a car drawing up next to him forced Clint to open his eyes. It was a police car.

"What do we have here then?" a familiar voice called from the driver. Clint grinned sheepishly and hopped up.

"Hey Detective Holls." Clint leant on the passenger door. "Aint nothin', just shuttin' my eye for a few seconds."

The detective gave him a severely unimpressed look.

"What happened this time, you trip over your laces again?"

"Somethin' like that." Clint rubbed at the blood under his nose. "You been catchin' more robbers?"

"Something like that." The officer laughed, "Hop in, I'll take you back to the house, still down at S.W.I.F.O.C .?" Clint nodded glumly, the South West Institution for Orphaned Children. Although more and more kids were there because their parents were in prison, or couldn't look after them, not because they didn't have any.

"Yeah, it sucks." Clint answered pulling the door open and bouncing onto the passenger seat. "We don't get any free time, an' there're loadsa chores. I liked the last one better." It was too bad Barney could keep his damn fists off the other kids though, he thought.

"Mari works here though doesn't she? She's good, my wife knows her." Holls said, breaking the uneasy silence that had befallen them.

"Yeah, Mari's cool, but she's always with the lil kids. We got Dave and Shannon lookin' after us and they're mean. They don't let us do anythin' an' they don't tell no one off except me an' Barney."

"I'm sure the other boys get told off as well. What time were you meant to back by?"

"Six."

"Right. You're really late." He pushed down on the accelerator and they shot forward. Clint looked over at the dashboard and realised that it was almost half seven. He sighed. He was going to be in serious trouble.

The rest of the short car journey was travelled in silence but just as they pulled up to the overbearing house Holls began talking.

"Clint, I know you don't like this, and I know it wasn't what you were expecting but stick it through, ok? It'll be worth it when you're older, then maybe you can join me and catch the bad guys. It's not fair, and you're still so young, but just-" he stopped searching for the right words, "try. Try to make sure you're in, and you keep to the rules. If the older boys are picking on you don't indulge them, I know Barney does but that doesn't make it right, ok? Try in school, you might be surprised what you can do. You're good Clint, and clever, I'm sure of it, you just have to let yourself try. Can you do that?"

Clint looked up at the gruff man. It wasn't often that he spoke so fully, and especially not to him. He nodded and unclicked his seat belt.

"You comin' in?" he asked hopefully. The officer smiled and nodded.

"I probably should, shouldn't I?" They walked up the small path and pushed the buzzer on the door. They were quickly let in and Shannon bustled over to them, annoyance clear on her face.

"Detective Holls, I do apologise for wasting your time again." She shook his hand, "Oh Clint, what happened this time? No, never mind, go and see if we can salvage anything for you're dinner, and we can have a talk afterwards." Clint walked slowly to the kitchen, leaving Holls alone. He smiled at the small woman.

"It's not a problem ma'am. You will keep an eye on the Bartons though, won't you? Especially Clint, the kids haven't seemed to take to him."  
>"I care for all the boys equally, officer. I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation for this, and Clint will be telling me all about it later. Anyway, surely you know how boys can be." She gushed. Holls could understand why Clint didn't like her. "If that is all, officer?" she looked pointedly at the exit.<p>

"Of course ma'am, may I speak to Clint for a second?"

"If you must, CLINTON!" she yelled. Clint appeared a couple of seconds later, chewing something.

"Yesum?" he said, looking at the floor.

"The kind Detective would like to talk to you."

He looked up, a smile playing on his lips. Holls knelt down next to him.

"Remember what I said Clint, ok? You're good, God knows you deserve better, but you get what you get, and you're strong and you're smart. Don't let them tell you different and what, most of all?" he smiles.

"Try?" the boy answers in a small voice.

"That's it Clint, keep trying, someone has to notice at some point, right?" He stands, "High five?" Clint slaps his hand hard and runs back to finish his, luckily saved, dinner.


	3. The Swordsman

"Barney, I don't think we should-"

"Jesus, don't be such a baby. No one's here, it's fine." Barney said, glaring at his younger brother. He picked up one of the throwing knifes he was meant to be polishing and looked down it's length at the target.

"I bet you I could hit that!" he pulled his arm back and forward making 'whoosh' noises as he did so.

"Uh, I don't think so, I think we should just get back to doin' what we're meant to be doin'." Clint looked down at the various knifes he had sitting in his lap. He hated it when his brother started mucking about while they were supposed to be working, they were walking a thin line already and getting caught playing with expensive equipment would likely get their asses thrown to the curb.

"Whatever." Barney muttered before losing the knife. Clint sucked breath sharply, it barely hit the wooden board the target was mounted on, but he could have said that before the knife had left his brother's hand. He kept quiet though and carried on polishing the long deadly knife in his hand. His brother growled angrily and launched another projectile at the target. It missed. This went on for several minutes, Clint occasionally glancing up to see his brother growing more frustrated, but once he had the knife gleaming he carefully put the others onto the cloth that sat next to him and went to stand next to his brother.

"You know, if you do it like this, you'll hit it much easier." Clint lined himself up and threw straight from his shoulder, releasing his grip on the knife at his chest and letting his arm swing down to hit is knees, his stormy eyes watched intently as the knife somersaulted towards the board. It hit with a clang and bounced on to the soft wood shavings. He shook his head and sighed, he was too close to the target. He should have realised that the weight would have meant he should stand at least another two steps back.

"Oh, really? That's how it's meant to be done, huh? That was shit."

"No, wait, lemme do it again, I was too close!" Clint complained, already running to get the long knife. His brother snorted and laughed, but he ignored it. Coming back he looked again, feeling the solidity of the cool metal in his hand. He tossed it in the air a couple of times, flipping it, getting a better feel, then stepped back. Breathe. Pull back, tense and relax. Look. Breathe.

Breathe.

Now.

The knife flew through the air and hit the target with a loud whack. Clint grinned.

"Told you I could do it."

Barney thundered and shoved Clint.

"Lucky throw." He said, moodily. "You couldn't do that twice." A glint appeared in his younger sibling's eye and he raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, really?" He grabbed a few knifes from Barney and turned back to face the target. He breathed slowly again and released one, sticking to the target. Then another. And another. All three stuck solidly into the target. He laughed and did a little dance around his brother. He got a hard shove for that, but didn't mind, his brother was always pretty rough. He ran back to the target and began to ease the knifes out one by one. They were stuck solidly and it took all his focus and strength to get them out. It was why he hadn't noticed the figure moving lithely towards him until it was already on top of him.

"Just what do you think you're doing child?" a sharp faux-French accent rang in Clint's ear. He jumped suddenly, turning to face the tall spindly man that was mere inches away from his face. His grey eyes went wide with shock and he shrunk back behind the knife he had been pulling. The man towered over him and Clint could see all too clearly the pock marks that decorated the thin face, partly hidden under a rat tail of a beard. The black greasy hair hung at shoulder length and had remnants of what Clint could only hope to be tonight's dinner scattered through the ends. It was obvious who this was, he had been beaten by him more than once and the stench of booze was so strong it almost overpowered whatever cheap cologne the man had bought.

"Swordsman sir- I'm sorry- we was just- I mean- we didn't mean to-uh-sir?" his brows furrowed with curiosity as he looked at the man's face. It was facing the target board, surprise etched into the cruel features. Clint momentarily wondered why but found that he was too scared to question further.

"You did this?" the Swordsman asked suddenly, turning to face Clint, an odd glint in his eye.

"Uh, yessir." The young boy answered worriedly. The tall man yanked one of the knifes out suddenly and flipped it so that he was gripping the blade.

"Show me." Clint hesitantly reached up for the carved mahogany handle. He took a grip of it and walked back twenty footsteps. He realised that Barney was nowhere in sight, and bit his lip worriedly. It was just typical of him to scarper as soon as there was any sign of trouble, he would leave him little brother to take the blame and turn up later that night with more than alcohol pumping through his veins. Clint wished he wouldn't hang around the other circus hands but as Barney put it 'we lied to get in here, I'm just making sure no one finds out.' Clint didn't necessarily believe it but the subject was quickly dropped when his brother started throwing stuff around their small trailer.

Shaking his head he turned the knife to hold the tip loosely in his fingers and turned back to the target. Breathe. He placed his right foot forward and his elbow just higher than square with his shoulder. Breathe. He brought his hand back, the cool metal gleaming in the corner of his eye and he glanced at the intricate projectile in his hand. He focused quickly back on the target and his other senses dulled, all focus given to his eyes. He could pick out every notch and crack in the wood but he ignored all the details apart from one, right in the heart of the centre circle. It was a tiny nick in the wood, that was his aim. Breathe. His shoulder tensed and as he released his breathe his arm flew forward in an arc ending at his knee. He stared as the knife flew straight, doing a single rotation before slamming into his self found target. His breathe continued to release and he stood straight, eyes darting towards the Swordsman, who's mouth hung open for a few seconds too long, before he too straightened and swallowed grimly.

"Again." He pulled the knife from the board and tossed it to Clint, who caught it lightly. Again he threw straight to where the knife landed before. It stuck solidly. The process was repeated three more times, the Swordsman become increasingly agitated and the glint in his eye looked to be throbbing.

"Who taught you to throw like that, boy?" the sharp question was straight to the point.

"No one, sir."  
>"What do you mean no one? Everyone has a teacher."<p>

"No sir, I would just chuck stuff around in the yard." Clint gave a small half smile and the Swordsman looked like he was about to contradict him, before changing his mind.

"What's your name boy?"

"Clint, sir."

"How old are you Clint?"  
>"fourteen, sir"<p>

The Swordsman frowned hard. It was a difficult lie to believe, the boy was barely brushing 5'5" and lanky.

"Now how old are you really?"

"Four-twelve, sir."

"Twelve. My, my..." he seemed to contemplate this for a minute before continuing. "I will train you. Your style may leave a lot to be desired but your aim is true. Come, follow me, swordsmanship is one of the grandest skills any man can learn but that aim needs something a little more. Come." With that he turned on his heel and strode out of the big top tent. Clint had no option but to follow, jogging to keep up as the Swordsman's long legs swept between the trailers and fires the other performers and workers had set up that morning. After many long minutes of walking he stopped suddenly, causing Clint to slam into him. He growled angrily and tensed but merely banged on a trailer door.

"Trick Shot! Open up you old fool, I'm here to claim my debt!" A rustling and banging could be heard inside the trailer and some colourful language assaulted Clint's ears, causing him to shrink into the shadows between two trailers. The Swordsman sighed and hit the thin metal door again before throwing it open, letting yellow light shine out into the dark night. The tall performer held a look of disgust on his face before stepping slowly into the messy trailer. Clint followed cautiously behind, nose scrunching up as the smell of stale beer and sweat hit him.

"Jesus, Duquesne! Close the damn door. You'd think it was summer or sumat." A short, hairy man growled, taking a swig from a green glass bottle as he slid down onto a small couch.

"I am making you an offer, Chrisholm, it would be wise to listen, unless, of course, you actually have my money?" A sneer passed over both men's faces and Chrisholm spat on the table.

"You know damn well I don't have your fucking money, Duquesne."

"Well, a trade, then. You will train this boy, and in turn I will _forget_ about the money I am owed." The Swordsman pushed Clint forward, causing him to stumble. "Agreed?"

Chrisholm looked Clint up and down, sizing him up, before taking another long gulp of liquor and laughing.

"Anything to get you off my back, although I'm not sure if that lil pup'll be able to do much good with a bow."

"He will learn. His aim is-" a smile appeared on the thin face, "incredible." He turned on his heel, grimaced, and stored out of the trailer, leaving Clint to glance warily at his newly proclaimed mentor. He twitched his lips into a smile, biting his lip as he was once again sized up.

"Well, fuck, wha'm I gonna do wi' you?" Trick Shot smiled back, giving Clint a small tap on his shoulder, "Get your ass out of here an' don't let me see you until, oh god, nine tomorra' mornin', you got that?" Clint grinned and sped out of the small trailer, glad to be outside once more, and worried what the morning would bring.


	4. Trick Shot

Clint lay huddled underneath a thin blanket, curling in on himself for warmth. He took shallow breaths, pretending to sleep. He wondered who he was trying to fool; his brother was nowhere to be seen. Although, by what little he could hear that was about to change. A harsh laugh echoed outside, followed by shouts and more, louder, laughter. Suddenly the cool February air assaulted Clint as the door to the trailer was flung open and his brother's heavy footsteps entered, accompanied by raucous singing.

"_Oh, Clint my boy, the bow the bow it calls ya! From town to town, we go to show ya off_, come on you stupid shit, sing it!_ The target's there, all you gotta do's hit it, it's you it's you, it's always fuckin' you_!" Barney stared at the unmoving form of his younger brother, eyes narrowing. He took a last gulp of beer before throwing the bottle across the small trailer, narrowly missing his brother as it clattered against the thin metal wall. Barney began to swear repeatedly and kicked at a stack of pizza boxes. Clint sat up quickly, the blanket falling to reveal his bare chest as he pulled his boots on.

"Fuck off Barney."

"Oh! The great marksman dares grace the peasants with speech! What about it, boy? You gonna go runnin' to your favourite Trick Shot?" Barney spat, grabbing Clint's dirty blond hair as he tried to squeeze past. "Eh? Come on fucktard, talk to me. I'm your brother; we're supposed to be family, stupid. Family share."

Clint clawed at the fingers wrapped tightly in his hair, desperately trying not to cry out in pain.

"Go to hell!" he muttered, getting hold of his older brother's fingernails and pulling sharply upwards. Barney let out a screech of pain as blood began pouring from his cuticles and dropped Clint, letting him escape out into the night. He yelled and screamed but Clint just kept running, not daring to stop until he could barely see the circus.

He stooped panting for breath and leaning against a dirty red brick wall. He was furious with his brother, and ashamed. Furious that Barney was coming back in such a state every night and ashamed that he couldn't do anything to stop it. It wasn't part of the act any more, neither of them were underage, it was a choice that he was making every night to go shoot himself up with God knows what, with God knows who. Probably those stagehands, the assholes. Clint kicked at the wall, roaring, it wasn't fair. He hated Barney, hated the circus, hated everything about his stupid no good life.

He stopped. Not everything. He liked his bow and his throwing knifes, hell he even liked Chrisholm on the occasion he wasn't swearing like a sailor or betting away his life savings.

Clint sighed and began trudging back to the circus, unable to think of anywhere else he could go. When he arrived back it was silent, everyone was either in their beds or at the nearest bar getting hammered before the real work started the next morning. He snuck noiselessly through the camp and storage vans, grabbing his bow and quiver, and into the big top. It was sparsely lit and the fresh woodchip floor glowed orange. The wood benches that lined the outside of the ring were devoid of life, a half-finished paint job evident on the top four rows. Clint strode over the soft ground, setting up a target to the north of the entrance and started firing. He didn't care where they were hitting, he just needed to shoot – and shoot fast. It was only minutes before he had shot the thirty or so arrows in his quiver and he jogged up to collect them, pulling them out with the ease and grace of years practice, then returning to repeat the process over and over again.

He didn't know how long he had been shooting for when he realised he was being watched.

"Chrisholm." He stated with a nod, releasing another arrow.

"Clint." The old man nodded back but stayed where he was. There was no interfering with his apprentice when he was like this. Arrow after arrow went flying into the target, into the bull's eye first and when there was no space as close to it as possible. He watched until there were no arrows left to fire and Clint had to go up to collect them.

"Bring me your bow, boy." He called. Clint glanced up and nodded again, shoving the arrows into the quiver and jogging up to his teacher. Chrisholm took the bow and balanced it in his hand, letting it settle until it was completely level, then flicked it up and tested the string.

"Arrow." Clint handed him an arrow and he let fly, hitting the board slightly off centre. He sighed and handed the bow back to Clint.

"What are you doin' here, boy?" He asked sadly, "Nothin' really to keep you. No girl, no debt, no crimes. You could be out livin'. Why you still here?"

"Don't have anywhere else, you know that." Clint answered.

"No, boy." Chrisholm shook his head, "You got everywhere else you could be. Earnin' better money than here by any rate."

Clint was quiet before speaking again.

"It's not that I don't want to, but, I mean, I got Barney. He wouldn't let me leave. Not without killin' me first." He looked down, shuffling the woodchips with his feet.

"You can't always be thinkin' for your brother. You got to live for yourself as well." Chrisholm caught his chin and pulled it up, forcing eye contact, "You ain't here for no man but yourself, you got that?"

Clint pulled his chin away and batted the old man's hand down.

"It ain't that simple." He growled, turning away and firing off three arrows in quick succession. His teacher sighed, defeated. He hated seeing the boy waste away here. Once he gets knocked from headline there won't be anything left for him. Except that damn brother of his. A hopeless case if there ever was one. Clint was better without him. He turned into the bitter night air, leaving the young man to his rage.


End file.
